What do you mean, I’m not sixteen?

I love reading about the vibrations that the past causes, webs of family secrets, mysteries and magical spells and love. But there’s another type of book that I’ll always love too: YA.

A few months ago, I read Before I Fall by Lauren Oliver. I loved it because it was a bit magical – the premise is a bit like Groundhog Day. But instead of Bill Murray (who I do love), you get a teenage girl. There’s something about YA fiction like this that I just adore. And while we’re on the subject, I might as well admit that I love watching teen boxsets too.

It’s the whole teenage package that appeals to me: the bedroom that’s a haven from the rest of a family who are really there to serve you (instead of you serving them); the intense friendships that focus on boys and parties and clothes (instead of mortgages and managers and nursery fees); the shopping; the drinking; the bitching; the fashion; the schoolwork that is always put to one side because it’s so, like, not important right now.

It doesn’t matter that the idea of being a teenager is better than the reality, because escapism isn’t about that. I love having my own home, I love having my own family and I would probably fall out of a single bed. I never did let drama get in the way of schoolwork anyway (I wasn’t that cool). My friendships now aren’t intense but are more meaningful than they were when I was sixteen. Everything is.

But it’s all so meaningful, in fact, that sometimes it’s nice to curl up with a YA novel, or an episode of 90210 (yes, really), and pretend that the days of forgetting what being a teenager is actually like are a million miles away.


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